Victims of the Night
by Joodiff
Summary: Post-"Endgame". Actions speak louder than words. Or so he hopes. T-rated for language. Complete. Enjoy!


**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing.

 _For Scription Addict - hang in there, hun._

 _Big thanks to Got Tea for determinedly keeping me motivated and stopping me from getting side-tracked._

* * *

 **Victims of the Night**

by Joodiff

* * *

Propped against the bar nursing her recently-refilled glass, Eve looks gently puzzled. She offers a bemused smile and shrugs. "You're very welcome… but you're thanking entirely the wrong person. I had very little to do with arranging all this, and it _certainly_ wasn't my idea originally."

In return, Grace blinks in surprise and looks askance at her colleague. "It wasn't?"

"Nope," Eve confirms in a cheerful tone. "But I'm glad you're enjoying yourself. You absolutely deserve it after… well, after everything."

Grace ignores the allusion to all the bad things that even now are responsible for sending cold chills of fear up and down her spine at unforeseen moments. It's a happy day, after all, and instead of spending a quiet Friday night alone with a good book and a decent bottle of wine, she unexpectedly finds herself aboard one of the most stylish floating venues on the Thames surrounded by a large and motley assortment of current and former colleagues, many of whom she counts as good personal friends of varying degrees of closeness. Raising her eyebrows, she inquires, "So who…?"

Eve chuckles, sparkling amusement clear in her dark eyes. "Oh, come _on_ , Grace; who do you think?"

With Eve firmly out of the running, there is only one other realistic candidate who could possibly be responsible for arranging such an affair. Only one person who would… Bewildered, she reluctantly offers, "Boyd…?"

"Who else has the chutzpah for something like this?" Eve asks, gesturing with her glass at their opulent surroundings. "Though God _alone_ knows what it's costing him."

"Wait," Grace says, her bafflement only increasing, "Boyd arranged this… _and_ he's paying for it?"

The younger woman nods, evidently still very amused. She smirks, says in a loud, mock-conspiratorial whisper, "Someone not a million miles away from here most _definitely_ has a not-so secret admirer."

"Stop it," Grace scolds immediately, slightly disturbed by the answering rush of heat she feels rising in her cheeks. Flustered, she frowns and demands, "What the hell is he playing at?"

Eve's knowing smile turns into another broad smirk. "What are men usually playing at when they make the effort do something like this for a woman?"

"Just how much have you had to drink?" Grace demands in a tetchy attempt to deflect the perhaps not altogether rhetorical question. Eve's blatant insinuation can't be right. Can it?

"Not enough to be incapable of seeing what's right in front of me," Eve responds, more than a little smug. The exasperated sigh that follows is far from subtle. "Oh, for heaven's sake, Grace; haven't you two been playing games for long enough? Wake up and look what he's done for you here tonight. Isn't it high time you bit the bullet and put the poor guy out of his misery, one way or the other?"

Grace blinks again. She's not sure if she's amused or outraged by the sudden candour. Nor, she realises, as she looks around her, is she quite sure what to make of what seems to be some kind of very public grand gesture. Cynical to the last, she says, "I take it this is still _Boyd_ we're talking about, is it?"

Eve snorts. It's a very telling sound. "Obviously."

"The same Boyd you were seriously considering strangling, and then arranging to have buried in a shallow grave just this morning?"

"Ah, but that was _this morning_ , and you have to admit he was being complete a pain in the arse. More so than usual, I mean." Eve shakes her head in evident despair. "Open your eyes, Grace. It's blindingly obvious to _everyone_ that the bloody infuriating man absolutely adores you…"

Blindingly obvious, Grace thinks, to everyone except herself. Perhaps. Sternly, she accuses, "You've _definitely_ had far too much wine, Eve."

"…and that _you_ adore _him_ ," Eve continues, completely unabashed by the implied reprimand. She gestures in a vague, unspecific sort of way. "For heaven's sake, why on earth _not_ let something good come out of all the shit you've both been through over the last couple of years?"

The idea certainly has considerable appeal, but… Only just refraining from rolling her eyes, Grace shakes her head. "Even if you're right – and I'm not saying that you are – it's really not that simple."

"Maybe, maybe not," is the lugubrious reply, "but I'll tell you something for nothing, Grace – throw tonight back in his face and… Well, let's just say that if he comes to the conclusion that you're _really_ not interested, there's definitely someone else waiting in the wings ready to pounce."

Grace finds herself gazing across the big, comfortable bar area and the wooden dancefloor towards the cordoned-off tables grouped together at the rear, the ones that offer a spectacular view of the river and the glittering lights of the South Bank. Not really meaning to give voice to the name, she murmurs, "Frankie."

"Frankie," Eve confirms. Her gaze is also on the small group of people still seated at the tables as she adds, "She's had her eye on him all night. Oh, he might be a bit too dense – or a bit too preoccupied – to notice at the moment, but trust me, now they've settled their differences, give her half a chance..."

Dryly, Grace says, "I don't think it quite works that way with Boyd."

"Listen, if it's male and it breathes…"

"Why are we even having this conversation?" Grace demands irritably after a long and pointed moment, but she finds herself still reflectively watching her erstwhile colleague. There always was something of a latent spark between Boyd and Frankie, a strong suggestion that despite the age difference, despite the occasional friction, and the carefully observed boundaries of professional propriety, if circumstances had been different… And now, several years later, they are. Very different.

Beside her, oblivious to her thoughts, Eve answers her question with, "Because it's Friday night, we're having a good time celebrating your return to work, and we're both a bit tipsy."

"Speak for yourself."

Eve leans back against the bar again. She looks indolent and relaxed, but her gaze is sharp and intent. "So, come on – how much more does he have to do to get your attention, Grace? Being willing to die for you wasn't enough? Visiting you almost every day while you were in hospital wasn't enough? Doing this for you isn't enough?"

The reproachful tone causes her to wince inwardly. Eve is right – against all expectation, Boyd has quietly surpassed himself over the last six months or more, his brisk impatience, coupled with a raw, tenacious optimism, however forced, making her face and conquer some of the toughest, darkest days of her life. Relentlessly bullying and cajoling her, sometimes gentle, sometimes irate, but always… well, always just _there_. In spirit, if not always in person. Difficult not to have increasingly strong feelings for a man so… Grace quickly slams the door on the unfinished thought and says, "You're forgetting something – he's had plenty of time to tell me how he feels. The fact that hasn't is rather… indicative, don't you think?"

In return, Eve gives her a derisive sideways look. "He's not a man for talking, you know that. _Acta non verba_."

"'Action not words'," she automatically translates.

"Exactly. Look, Grace, maybe you should stop avoiding the whole issue, and just take a leaf out of his book for once."

"Thank you for your expert relationship advice, Doctor Lockhart," Grace says, grim and sardonic but not at all spiteful. She looks over at the tables again. Boyd is in his element, Frankie seated on one side of him, Kat on the other, and as she watches he throws back his head and laughs at whatever it is one or other of them has just said to him. Utterly unselfconscious, completely at ease. Entirely different from the intolerant, edgy, unpredictable character he is at work. It's a side of him Grace has caught brief glimpses of often enough over the years, and one she always thoroughly enjoys seeing. Heart-warming hints of the amiable, surprisingly unassuming man who can be so easy-going, and so artlessly charming when he wants to be. He is quick-tempered, yes; and difficult and stubborn, but there's far more to him than just –

Eve snorts again, but in amusement this time. "You're really not fooling anyone, Grace – you do realise that? _Neither_ of you. Tell me you're not looking at him right now and thinking about all the things you'd like to do to him. Or that you'd like _him_ to do to _you_ , come to that."

This time Grace really does flush. And instantly hates herself for it. She's not a naïve teenager, she's an experienced woman of the world, considerably older than Eve and… Her admonishment is quick and sharp. "That's _enough_."

"What…?" the younger woman says loudly and disingenuously. "Oh, I'm sorry. It's purely a meeting of _minds_ you're after, is it? All very decorous and cerebral. My mistake."

More embarrassed than she'd ever care to admit, Grace glares at her colleague. "Seriously now, Eve, just how much have you had to drink?"

"Enough to _really_ hate myself in the morning, probably."

"'Probably'?"

A rueful grin. " _Definitely_ , then."

Grace shakes her head. She's annoyed, and more than a little embarrassed, but yes, against her will she's just a little entertained, too. Eve can be remarkably blunt and fearless when she's got something to say, regardless of the identity of her target. Finally picking up her own glass again, she grudgingly admits, "All right, all right. He's an attractive man."

"Hallelujah! And…?"

She sighs. "All right, yes; I like him. I've _always_ liked him. You know damned well I have. But I think we've simply known each other for far too long to think about – "

"Irrelevant," Eve interrupts. "Look at this place, Grace. This is not a swift half down the King's Head to toast having you back down in the bunker with us. The poor old bugger doesn't have a _clue_ how to go about telling you how he feels, so he's doing his level best to _show_ you. And if you can't work that one out for yourself, you're a pretty crap psychologist." An apologetic grimace. "No offence."

"None taken." Grace sips her drink for a moment, watching the dynamics of the group at the tables. Now it is Spencer holding court, a broad grin on his face as he leans closer to Kat. She idly wonders what scandalous anecdote is being shared. She's brought out of her momentary reverie by Eve none-too-gently nudging her shoulder. "Hm?"

"Well…?"

"Well, what?"

With an exaggerated sigh, Eve says, " _Acta non verba_ …?"

Grace is not a coward – never has been – but something in her baulks at the idea of being put so firmly on the spot by anyone, let alone a woman at least twenty years her junior. She shakes her head again. "No. And none of this is any of your business, by the way. Now, let's either change the subject, or re-join the others."

"Too late," is the slightly self-satisfied reply. Eve's right, too, Grace realises with a sudden sense of dread. Spencer and Boyd are now both on their feet, the former notably less steady than the latter, and heading relentlessly in their direction.

Grace fixes a steely glare on her companion. "Not. One. Word."

"Well, I was hardly going to – "

"I mean it, Eve," she says firmly. "Not a _single_ word, however flippant."

"Oh, okay. But – "

"Didn't I make myself clear enough?"

Eve subsides. Faintly cowed, but still grinning, she says, "Yeah, you did. All right. I get it, Grace."

"Good."

-oOo-

She's on edge. Boyd realises it immediately. It confuses him. Usually Grace is an eager socialiser, far happier to mix with their colleagues after-hours than he is. Usually she's more than happy to join in with whatever… shenanigans… are proposed, be it a decent meal in an upmarket restaurant, or a quick drink or two at the kind of noisy, downmarket boozer they inevitably seem to end up in whenever Spencer's involved in selecting the venue. Tonight though… He can't quite put his finger on it, but something's changed since they all arrived in a motley array of taxis. Something's definitely muted her initial bright enthusiasm for the evening. It unsettles him, worries him, even. He watches her as she stands talking to Kat and Frankie, wonders what's responsible for the tension evident in the way she's holding her head, the way she's so tightly clutching her empty glass.

A sense of bleak resignation starts to settle over him. Clearly, he has yet again made a serious error of judgement. Perhaps she's not ready to celebrate. Perhaps she simply doesn't want to. Not now, not ever. Well-intentioned but misguided, that's what he'll have on his damned gravestone. Frustrated, he glares into the mid-distance, lost in his thoughts. He just wanted to… what? He frowns to himself as he considers the question. What did he really want to achieve? To please her? To show her some appreciation? To celebrate her return to good health and to work?

All those things, and more. He knows it. He can't quite bring himself to conjure the words into existence, to give what he feels deep in his heart the kind of substance that will make him vulnerable to her. Even _more_ vulnerable – because trying to pretend that he isn't already is the kind of ridiculous folly he isn't used to entertaining. Despite what people think – despite what _she_ thinks – his self-perception is both acute and accurate. Boyd knows every last one of his weaknesses – and she has become one of them. A strength, too, of course, but…

If he was inclined to think in such florid terms, which he isn't, he might even go as far as suggesting to himself that she is his destiny. Perhaps always has been, from that very first meeting when he was so forcibly struck by her formidable intelligence and the stunning blue of her eyes. Born to be together, or some such romantic nonsense.

It's ridiculous, of course. But still he observes from the side-lines, not knowing what else he can say or do.

Eve drifts to his side, bringing with her the faintest whiff of lingering tobacco smoke. He glances at her only briefly, not looking at her as she asks, "Can I say something?"

The strangeness of the request pulls his attention away from Grace. Standing right at his shoulder, Eve has to look up to meet his eye. Not unlike... Boyd gives himself a firm mental shake. Gruffer than he intends, he says, "Of course."

"I mean," she says, not exactly coy, but definitely with some kind of half-humorous reticence, "can I say something in an 'off-the-record-and-you-don't-hit-the-roof' sort of way?"

Intrigued, he surveys her intently, noting that her eyes appear to be a little unfocused, and that she seems just a touch unsteady on her feet. He doesn't envy her tomorrow's hangover. At his expense. He shrugs, not prepared to commit himself. "There are no guarantees in this life, Eve."

"No," she agrees. "No, there aren't."

"Well…?" he prompts.

She's silent for a moment, as if debating the wisdom of continuing. Then, with no drama, she says, "Faint heart never won fair maiden, Boyd."

Not at all what he was expecting. "Meaning?" …But he knows damn well what she means. Didn't he give her the job at the CCU precisely because she was – in his opinion – by far the sharpest, boldest, and most intuitive of all the possible candidates? Not much gets past Eve Lockhart. Usually that's a very good thing. But maybe not tonight.

"Grace," she says.

He's too wily an old fox to remain anything other than completely expressionless. "What about her?"

She rolls her eyes at him, and that, too, forcibly reminds him of the woman in question. "Don't be deliberately stupid, Boyd."

It should irk him, the way she's daring to talk to him. He is, after all, both a senior police officer and the commander of the unit she works for. But she's clearly had a glass or two too many, and he's firmly off-duty. And curious, even if he wouldn't ever admit it. Boyd stares straight at her, well-aware of how intimidating he can appear without having to say a single word. It doesn't seem to bother her. His patience cracks under the strain of her silence. "Oh, just spit it out, Eve."

"All right," she says, absolutely imperturbable. "We nearly lost her, Boyd. _You_ nearly lost her. And even though you somehow managed to stop Linda just in time, you could still have lost her to the cancer."

He wonders how she can possibly imagine he isn't haunted by such dark thoughts every single moment of every single day. His reply is a sharp, "And your point is?"

She tilts her head a fraction. "If there's one thing I know about you, it's that you've got balls."

Despite himself, he almost smirks. Almost, but not quite. "Metaphorically or literally?"

"Both, I assume," she says, straight-faced, "but in this case I was talking about the metaphorical variety."

"Well, thank you. I think."

Her irritation is clear as she demands, "So? Why are you still pussyfooting about?"

"'Pussyfooting'?"

"You know what I'm talking about. _Grace_. _You_ and Grace."

"Moratorium's over, Eve," he tells her with what he feels is considerable restraint under the circumstances.

She purses her lips, evidently not at all happy with his response. He suspects she is calculating how far she dare push the subject, how much he will let her get away with before he rounds on her. She shrugs. "Faint heart never won fair maiden, remember?"

"I heard you the first time." He gives her a pointed look. "Well? Are you going to stand there all night, or…?"

"Oh… Fine." Distinctly petulant. "I'll just go back to the bar, then, shall I?"

"I think that might be wise." Boyd watches her stalk away, an unpleasant sense of dissatisfaction settling in his gut. He wishes he was a different sort of man, the sort of man who could open up and talk freely to all the people who clearly only have his best interests at heart. He's not. Never has been, never will be. The quiet, solitary boy became a morose, introspective teenager, one who grew into an extraordinarily stubborn and very taciturn man. Good-hearted enough, but far too easily misunderstood.

He turns abruptly on his heel and heads out onto the deck where he can be alone with his thoughts. The late-evening breeze is refreshing, and very welcome.

-oOo-

The number of couples brave enough to take to the dancefloor has increased steadily with every hour that's passed, every drink that's been consumed. Some, Grace notes, are connected to their group, but most are complete strangers, other patrons who have been excluded from the panoramic-windowed, tabled area at the rear for the evening, but not from the main body of the bar. The music is mediocre, middle-of-the-road, the volume kept at a moderate level that is similarly inoffensive, and she wonders if Boyd arranged that, too. He has no taste for contemporary music, shares her fondness for the vibrant soundtrack of their youth.

 _Their_ youth. The concept makes her smile to herself. He's a little younger than she is, a fact that he's yet to tire of reminding her, even after getting on for a decade, but not so much younger that he doesn't also remember the heady days of the late 'sixties and early 'seventies, the rose-tinted days before the rise of Thatcher and the angry, consumerist 'eighties. The days, in fact, when they were both young, and so much seemed possible. What, she reflects, not for the first time, might have been if they had met back then, instead of years later. Pointless to think about it.

He's standing near the big glass doors that lead out onto the deck, making occasional quick, staccato gestures as he talks with Spencer, something about the way he does it telling her that the conversation is undoubtedly work-related. Broad-shouldered, silver-haired, and notably taller than his subordinate, with a stance that is confident, pugnacious, even, he's a striking figure, easily noticed. Easily noticed by women, at least, she thinks wryly, not at all oblivious to the many speculative looks cast in his direction by several of the prowling females not attached to their party. She suspects that they think he might be a wealthy businessman, one with a mousey wife tucked away in the suburbs, and a taste for the kind of fun that comes with no strings attached.

He's not like that. It didn't take her long to realise it, to decide that the more salacious snippets of gossip about his private life were either wildly exaggerated or completely fabricated. Boyd likes women, and they like him, but he is – and she finds the fact both rather endearing and intensely frustrating – singularly inept at interpreting the kind of subtle signals most men would pick up on immediately.

Maybe that's the crux of the whole complicated… issue… that's been preying on her mind more and more just recently. There have been times in the last six months when she's caught him looking at her in a way that suggests that there's a lot – an _awful_ lot – going on behind those intense dark eyes that could bring about spectacular change for them both, if only he would take the gamble and reach out to her.

 _Acta non verba_. Eve's words come back to her, and she blinks, surprised by her own stupidity. _If only he would take the gamble and reach out to her_ …? Isn't that exactly what he's done here tonight?

Spencer is walking away now, leaving Boyd to run a reflective hand over his neat goatee beard before turning his back on the room to stare out at the river, at the endless city landscape of bright lights that keep the true darkness of the night at bay. For a moment Grace doesn't think she's ever seen anyone look quite so alone in the world.

Not for long, it would appear, because she spots Frankie heading across the now heavily populated dancefloor, clearly on a determined intercept course.

It's not rivalry. Territoriality. Or maybe that's exactly what it is. Whatever the reason, Grace suddenly finds herself moving towards exactly the same target.

-oOo-

Something – perhaps a soft prickle down his spine – makes Boyd turn round. His instincts are good, and they've served him well during the course of his long career. They serve him well tonight, too. He sees them both, Frankie and Grace, converging on him from different directions, neither yet close enough to engage him. A brief, surreal vision of himself cornered and entirely at their mercy makes him snort softly. Heaven help him, though, if for some reason they have decided to gang up on him. Maybe they're coming over to berate him for failing to socialise as much as they think he should. It's a distinct possibility.

Frankie's approach is languid, not quite nonchalant, but lacking the determined focus he can see in Grace, who seems to be bearing down on him in a distinctly inexorable manner. There's something in her expression he can't quite interpret, but he doubts it bodes well. Quite used to being roundly castigated by her for all manner of things, he waits stoically for whatever's about to befall him.

"Boyd," she says, stopping perhaps two feet away from him.

He surveys her with what he hopes resembles polite calm. "Grace."

"You did this." She gestures round her.

Not sure if it's an accusation or not, Boyd shrugs. "Yeah, well… don't get too used to the VIP treatment."

The blue eyes have a strange sort of ethereal glow about them in the reflected lights from the dancefloor. Eerie and fascinating. Her response surprises him. "Thank you."

He isn't quite able to stop himself frowning. "I thought you were royally pissed off with me?"

She frowns back. "Why? What an earth gave you that idea?"

"Earlier." He is peripherally aware of Frankie coming to a slow and careful halt a discreet distance away. Not in league with each other, then. "You had a face like thunder."

"Ah." Grace smiles slightly. "That would be Eve's fault."

Eve. Well, of course. He should have known. A touch disgruntled, he says, "God, she's an interfering witch, that one."

She studies him for a moment, expression both curious and resigned. "You got the lecture, too, then?"

"I got _a_ lecture. Whether it was the _same_ lecture..." He scowls, searching for the woman concerned in the shadowy crowd. Failing to locate his target, he mutters, "Well, come Monday morning she'll find herself cataloguing all the DNA samples from the secondary archive. That'll keep her out of bloody mischief."

"From now until Doomsday, no doubt."

"Mm." His gaze settles on Frankie. She's watching them both, no hint of what she's thinking visible on her face. A touch of dawning clarity makes him frown again. Is it possible that… No, of course it's not. They might have fallen a little too easily back into the familiar pattern of innuendo and double entendre, but Frankie's not –

"Boyd." Grace's voice, not exactly irate, but staccato and demanding his attention. He looks at her obediently, and she shakes her head slightly, as if in despair at his attention-span. A moment later she says, "This is stupid."

His answer is hardly proof of intelligence. "What's stupid?"

"This. Us." She sighs, heavy and deliberate. Her eyes seem to be searching his for something. "Aren't we a bit old to still be playing these sorts of games, Peter?"

"What sort of – " Boyd breaks off, startled both by the unfamiliar use of his first name and by the sudden forceful grip on his arm. She's stronger than she looks. Not nearly strong enough to hold onto him if he chose to shake her off, but the thought doesn't cross his mind.

"Don't look back," Grace orders, her head nodding an infinitesimal fraction towards Frankie. "Just keep your eyes on me."

She's so solemn and resolute in that moment that Boyd cedes willingly, not letting his gaze stray from hers for a second. Trying to make sense of what's clearly not being said, he prompts, "Talk to me."

"I think I should be the one saying that, don't you?"

There's something about those intense blue eyes that he finds compelling, hypnotic. Something that reaches out to him, reaches _into_ him. Something that's had a firm hold on him for far longer than he's ever realised. Until tonight. Until _now_. He thinks he can see the future in her eyes. He can certainly feel the sparking tension in the air between them, powerful and dangerous, but tempting and very far from unpleasant.

This might be the moment. _The_ moment. His last chance.

His thoughts have become an adrenaline-fueled arrow, keen and straight. Holding her gaze, he says, "Don't go home tonight."

Her eyebrows climb skywards. "Sorry?"

"To your house, I mean," Boyd clarifies, wondering how he can possibly sound so gauche at his age. It's ridiculous. "Come home with me, instead."

Grace laughs softly, a far better reaction than he might have feared. "You've never really managed to master the art of subtlety, have you, Peter?"

 _Peter_. The second oh-so-casual, but infinitely loaded use of his first name slams into him with all the delicacy of a London bus. A double-decker, at that. He hears himself say, "I have other talents."

The heavy-lidded look she gives him damn near stops his heart. "I'm quite sure you do."

"Well?" he pushes, firmly on the attack now. The lack of immediate refusal has fired his tenacity, his audacity.

Grace looks as if she's doing her best not to laugh. "Not the most romantically-phrased proposition I've ever heard."

Boyd can see the amusement dancing in her eyes. He's going to win this one. Dear Lord, he's actually going to win. His heart is beating very fast as he gently accuses, "You're holding back."

"Maybe," she says, half-smiling, "maybe not."

"Grace – "

She stops him dead with a swift tug on his arm and, "Let's dance."

"No," he tells her immediately, not astonished enough by the proposal to automatically acquiesce. Somehow, though, he's allowing himself to be towed towards the dancefloor. He mounts a rapid and heartfelt protest. "Oh, no. No, Grace. _No_. I don't dance."

It has no effect. "Tonight you do."

"For heaven's sake… Everyone's watching. Eve, Spence…"

"…Frankie."

He hears the acerbic edge to her voice quite clearly. Interesting. "Frankie…?"

"Are you _really_ that obtuse?" Grace asks, the tone every bit as pointed as the question itself.

He thinks he must be. Or perhaps not. All sorts of tiny, insignificant but bemusing things start to make a little more sense. He can certainly recognise a real touch of jealousy once he's primed to look for it. Gazing down into the vivid blue eyes, Boyd can feel the rest of the world momentarily fading away. Somehow knowing she will hear him despite the music, the background noise of laughter and chatter, he murmurs, "Forget about Frankie."

The returning gaze is steady. Appraising. "Why? Have you?"

"I never went there in the first place," he points out, entirely honestly.

Grace eyes him for a moment, as if assessing his veracity, and then she nods. As he takes her hand, she asks, "Double-bed?"

The temptation to kiss her, right there in front of every last one of their colleagues, is incredibly strong. It's an extremely bad idea. There will be time later. He nods. "Kingsize."

She smirks up at him, mischievous and knowing. "Why am I not at all surprised?"

He takes a breath, exhales slowly. There are things he needs to say. "Grace – "

"Shut up, Boyd," she interrupts as they move even closer together and start to sway in time with the music. "Shut up and dance with me."

Ignoring the astounded, wide-eyed looks they're suddenly getting from every direction, he surrenders. It seems to be both the wisest, and the very best thing to do.

 _\- the end -_

* * *

 _This story was largely inspired by the Walk The Moon song_ "Shut Up and Dance" _._  
 _You can find it on at least two of the popular video-sharing sites if you want to listen to it.  
Some lyrics deliberately re-purposed for title and dialogue._


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